Afterimage
by AStormIsBrewing
Summary: We all know what happened during, now for a taste of 'after.' Flash-fiction snapshots of different episodes, no particular order.
1. Lost the Queen

Disclaimer: All the things I love to write about are owned by Viacom. Three cheers for corporate monopolies!

It's been a while since I've stepped out of the box and written something for a fandom that doesn't include cartoons. For me, though, the first step is always angst. Voyager isn't exactly new to me; I used to watch it with my dad when I was little, but after it ended (leaving me utterly confused, by the way) I drifted off into things that ten year olds should be watching, like Zoids and Dragonball Z. I recently rediscovered it, and while I'm somewhat less confused, as far as I'm concerned, Endgame never happened. (Ever).

Except for the purposes of this fic. I have no sketching/drawing capabilities whatsoever, but this image stayed in my mind and I decided it needed to be set to page somehow. A picture is worth a thousand words. Lets see if I can make it.

--

Sandrine's.

Happier times, though the times couldn't get any better than this. Simpler times, though the immediate future was not so shrouded with hidden dangers as it had been for the past seven years. For times before reality, when its insistent grasp ended things before they could really begin.

But it was late here, and the lights had dimmed to a faint flicker. Denizens both photonic and organic had long since abandoned the hallowed home of memories. It was certainly late enough that the captain should have been in her quarters, resting, relaxing for once after seven years of half-sleep and troubled dreams and sore, stiff shoulders.

Her head rested on her palms, propped up on the worn bar. No drinks, just a soulful violin to replace the accordion and the jovial atmosphere that accompanied it with gut-wrenching gloom that a well-programmed EMH did not need a tricorder to detect.

Of course, _Voyager's_ Doctor was not at Sandrine's to warn the Captain against self-destructive tendencies -- depression, nihilism, alcoholism -- were he organic, he would be indulging in them himself.

Instead he sat beside his captain, shoulders slumped as he stared at a single speck in the wood's grain. He reveled in the nothingness he was experiencing -- for once, he was not so certain that expanding his programming was such a great and noble pursuit.

One of the terrible side-effects of his learned humanity was hurt. Terrible, writhing, crushing pain that he, as a hologram, should not have been able to feel. But once again, _Voyager_ worked miracles, so after B'Elanna and her baby were fit to depart and all the negative consequences of their most recent excapade with the Borg dealt with, the doctor had downloaded his program into holodeck 2, only to find it already in use.

"I have never been more happy in my life," Janeway said, her voice betraying tears that her eyes would not. She was not trying to convince herself of that fact -- it was truth, but it was also proof of yet another human paradox.

The Doctor understood; he was as fallible as his programmers, and had learned the lesson. He had the ability to experience happiness, joy, compassion, and love, but he had discovered the greatest tragedy of life -- what were those emotions worth without someone to share them with?

--

**A/N:** Actually, this picture is only worth 391 words. More bang for you buck.

If you find any glaring errors, keep me posted. Sometimes I can be more dense than the Doctor when it comes to taste. (Might need a dermal regenerator for that burn).

By the way, Syrus is my favorite Roman author, if you were wondering about the title(so he pretty much wrote the summary). Just like Thomas Jefferson is my favorite president, Thomas More is my favorite humanist, and Fruity Pebbles is my favorite cereal.

_Are_. Fruity Pebbles _are_ my favorite cereal. Stupid grammar, trying to cramp my style.

Hope you enjoyed and please review!


	2. Unresolved

Disclaimer: See first chapter

New plan! I'm going to do more of these snap-shots to empty my brain and make room for other stuff.

While last chapter was for 'Endgame,' this one refers to the end of 'Resolutions.'

And, uh, I prefer unrequited love. I don't write romance, not really. Not unless I'm really comfortable with the characters. So J/C, J/7, C/7 people, you've nothing to fear from me except an over-excited imagination and a love of all things stupid. And maybe some paranoid narcissism (shipping really is out to get me).

--

All's well that ends well, but sometimes getting what you wish for is less desirable if it means losing what you could have had without ever having to go through the trouble of asking for it.

All of which made matters of the heart just as confusing as temporal paradoxes — how could she know if it was something she even wished for in the first place if she didn't have to actually wish for it to get it? Those were questions better left to temporal mechanics and counselors, because the captain of a starship had better things to think about.

She didn't even have enough data to form an objective conclusion. All she really knew was that she felt like a giddy teenager when their hands entwined, and how he was always nearby to offer his strength and support should she need it, and how he had looked at her when all she was wearing was a towel, she herself more concerned about a primate than worried about her dignity (Chakotay did that plenty enough for the both of them).

No, that tiny amount of data was not nearly enough to allow Kathryn out of hibernation. Captain Janeway was in full control, despite those minor glitches caused by gremlins in the engines — namely, hormones and sexual drive.

Right now, Janeway could think of nothing better than some 'better than coffee,' (a lie!) to destroy this weird funk (by replacing it with another).

Well, nothing was a relative term. 'Better than coffee,' was certainly no aphrodisiac, but it wasn't exactly the proverbial cold shower.

"Commander, you have the bridge." _Remove the distraction, or remove yourself._

It was too bad she couldn't write off her irrational behavior on caffeine withdraw. Why did the replicator have to pick then, of all times, to work?

--

A/N: Expunged is my second-favorite word, but it's more of a Tuvok word, so I couldn't use it here. That's upsetting. I have to do one for a Tuvok episode now.

I can't help but think I was more than half asleep when I wrote this. It doesn't make much sense, to me, at least.

Please review!


	3. Nightmare

Disclaimer: See first chapter

I had some long talks with my dad over the weekend, and from those, I think I have a better grasp of Chakotay's character. At least, I can hear his voice more clearly in my head when I try to write for him.

Apparently, I also thought he was teh smex (whatever that means) when I was ten, and that it slightly disturbed my dad. B'Elanna and the Captain were always my favorite characters, though. So my final thoughts on 'Endgame' were not so much, 'But I though he liked the Captain,' as much as 'But _I_ wanted him!' And I didn't get that it was actually over.

Just kidding. I can't really remember how I reacted. Probably with whining and mindless violence against stuffed animals. Admiral Janeway _shouldn't_ have died. And Seven _shouldn't_ have gotten Chakotay all to herself.

Yeah. Now that we've navigated through that awkward moment, I offer you my afterimage for the episode 'Night,' as recompense. I might do more for this one, as it is my favorite episode.

--

When you don't know a first officer is doing his job is when you know he's doing a good job. And the truth was, it was a boring job full of transparent duties that were important in their capacity because they were so rarely recognized or appreciated. Officially, he was second in command and in charge of the duty roster and anything else the captain threw his way, which was where the unofficial duties of safety valve, storm wall, spiritual guide, and ship's counselor came into play.

More often than not, though, Chakotay felt more like a Dean of Students at an elementary school. He was in charge of handing out detentions to delinquents so that they would not interfere with the running of the school and also in charge of relaying orders from the principle on how that school was to be run.

It was not a bad job, and the former Maquis (did the term once a Maquis, always a Maquis even apply anymore?) could honestly say that he enjoyed being at the convergence of interests, being able to watch the interactions of people and also take part in them in a basic but well-functioning social unit. The anthropologist in him had to find its outlet somewhere, after all.

In that way, there wasn't really any boredom between Borg attacks and first contacts and new spacial anomalies and any slight opportunity to get home. He didn't have to create a crisis to be a hero and gain some sort of selfish penitence—

_Stop right there_, his guide warned, her silky, ephemeral voice suddenly a stone wall in his mind. _Bitterness born of worry. I thought you came to save her from that path, not follow her down it yourself._

Worry . . . it went beyond that, now. As captain, as a human, as a reckless, emotional individual, Kathryn Janeway had every right to gamble with her life, but she had no right to appraise it as so worthless that it could be casually cast away.

The captain was the persona everyone on the ship had attached their hopes and dreams to. Essentially, she was the ship. The crew might go on without her, might be able to move on, but it would take time. What if, in that process of grieving, someone finally made that fatal mistake that took away the last shred of hope or got everyone killed?

_Now you must decide if 'someone' is a nice way of saying 'you.'_

She had asked him if he was ready to captain _Voyager_. He should have screamed 'no!' knowing there was only place her thoughts could lead, but the answer was yes. He had the experience.

He didn't have her luck. If he was captain, he wouldn't have her at all. They had joked about it in the early days, but then the threat of death out here became all too real and things began slipping away and falling apart, things that were not attached to bulkheads and internal matrixes and main or auxiliary power systems. Because the Captain had to hold it together, Chakotay had to watch while Kathryn fell apart.

_This is the Delta Quadrant_, she would say. _We all have to make sacrifices._

But which 'she' was speaking?

It was easier to differentiate between the woman who said 'Maybe you should call me Kathryn,' who had worked so tirelessly to get them out of their medical exile and the woman who wanted to be left behind, alone, in a region of nothingness than it was to accept that they were the same woman, and that something had gone terribly, horribly wrong.

All the bells and whistles were blowing, and there may as well have been 'Red Alert' klaxons going off — this was one of those moments where he could have made her burden easier to bear, but he didn't know where to start.

So in this wonderfully lit, completely interesting section of space filled with trigger-happy, walking, talking bio-hazards and an emotionally masochistic captain itching for something interesting to happen, that was the worst nightmare.

* * *

**A/N:**

Note the spiffy title. Yeah. Bad puns.

I don't know about you, but angst and psychological trauma are what make me get up in the morning! It's my drug of choice.

Please leave a review!


	4. Dear Jane

Disclaimer: All the things I love to write about are owned by Viacom. Three cheers for corporate monopolies!

Really, this should have been called 'When plot bunnies attack.' I'm working on other things, and all of the sudden 'Why would Mark send Kathryn her only letter from home?' hit me like a ton of bricks. Not literally; that would have broken my laptop. But still.

Oh, and in the one episode of Family Guy, where Stewie is trying to stop Peter and Lois from having another kid, you hear Voyager's computer. Multiple times. And Thomas Jefferson had a high, squeaky voice, so he would have been Kenny in South Park.

This is more of a before thing for 'Hunters,' but I meant it for after 'Message in a Bottle.' Whatever.

---

Dear Jane

---

"Whether or not you've been flat out ignoring my calls, the fact is we need to have a chitty-chat. After that it's ixnay on the Athrynkay, savvy?"

A half-full coffee mug, a finished meal, and enough work to keep Mark Johnson busy for hours. A familiar café on campus. All meant to create the illusion of control. Of course, illusion never did count for much when dealing with a Janeway, especially one as frustrated as the 'other' child had been when she left that last message. Phoebe never resorted to juveneilian language unless she thought she was dealing with a mental inferior --- universal translators didn't account for stupid.

She had called multiple times, and at any other time of the year, he would have been more than willing to respond with all due haste, but there were finals and there was family and between the two of them, an intervention with the black sheep of the Janeway clan was not high on his list of priorities. The woman was already ten minutes late --- another ploy for control, meant to unnerve him as he worried over the possible outcomes --- and it was another five minutes more before she plopped into her seat and opened negotiations with, "Way to pick a restaurant."

"Since I'm a responsible and civilized adult, I'm going to greet you by giving you the benefit of the doubt. How have you been, Phoebe?"

"Peachy," she said, crossing her legs under the table as she turned to face him. "But this isn't about me." No matter how old she was, he would always be reminded of a teenager --- me vs them, and constant, constant posturing. She had thrown the first punch and had been deflected. It was her way of conceding a point, though it would only make the impression worse to play by her rules. In any case, it would be good practice for when he had a teenager. "Starfleet is accepting personal letters from families of the Voyager crew. They're going to try and send them the same way Kathy dearest sent the EMH, except, you know, minus the serious risk to a valuable piece of machinery. I want you," she said, tapping her finger on the table to accent her words, "to send the letter to Kathryn."

Mark took a sip of his coffee, trying to keep his face objective. "It would make more sense for someone closer to her to write it."

"I can imagine it now," Phoebe replied, leaning back in her chair. "'Dear Kathy, My life's been great for the past four years, and by the way, your fiancé got married while you were gone, too.' Sucks, doesn't it? Sort of like your timing."

"You know, I can't tell anymore if you can't help antagonizing people or if you really are trying." It was a valid question. Kathryn had asked it herself on more than one occasion. "Maybe this is a perfect chance for you to reach out an olive branch."

"Because being the bearer of bad news is such a good way to do that. She doesn't want to hear from me, Mark. I mean, who could blame her since I'm so 'antagonistic.' The best I might be able to do is paint her a picture."

"What was the old saying? A picture's worth a thousand words?"

"For a philosopher you sure are a smart-ass."

"You bring out the worst in everyone you're around."

"The first step to solving a problem is admitting you have one. In that regard, I'm doing a service to society by helping people see their faults."

"You deserve a medal. The 'I'm only a jerk because I love you,' award."

That may have been a mistake. Phoebe smiled as if it was great praise, and said, "It has a nice ring to it, but I think it might already be taken."

"Who could possibly outshine you in such a service?"

"I can think of some people."

"Are they real people?"

"Well . . . most of them. The rest are real conglomerates of people."

"Name them."

"Kathy thought it would be a good idea to toughen me up for the real world by telling me the mathematical probability of me becoming a successful artist. We were both pretty young, and kids suck---"

"Sort of like my timing."

"You learn quickly. But we're getting off topic. I was going to make a comment that may or may not be taken as sympathetic to the maquis, and I'm not going to take the chance of being caught with my pants down, saying, 'the poor ain't so bad.' Just write the letter. For all we know, she's moved on, too, and you guys can laugh at each other from across the universe, but, well, semper paratus. It would ease my mind if you could find it in your heart to be a jerk just this once and send my sister a 'Dear Jane,' letter."

"Don't quit your day job, Phoebe."

"Ok, so that last one was like a blow to the head. Will you recover?"

Mark gulped the last of his coffee, down to the cold, bitter dregs. "I'll write your letter. 'Dear Jane, Life's great on this side of the galaxy, but things haven't really changed much. Your sister is still so scared of your disapproval that she's been pestering me for two weeks to write your letter from home. . . ."

* * *

A/N: I think I should warn you now that I love minor characters with all my heart, so I should never, ever be exposed to them. Under any circumstances.

Please Review!


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